HVSF: My Thirty-Year Love Affair -- Update

 Annamaria on Monday

Actually, I am publishing this on Sunday. Typically, I write a blog on a Sunday afternoon for publication on Monday, but this Sunday evening, I will be at the annual gala of the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival. I am one of the people they are honoring. Frankly, it feels strange that they are thanking me for what I have done for an organization that has brought me so much joy. As you will see in the post below first published in June 2017, I have every reason to love HVS.  Don't get me wrong, like any other lover, I am happy to receive expressions of love in return. Here is the story from seven years ago that tells why I consider this an already requited love affair.

Where to begin to describe a requited love affair that has lasted so long.  At the beginning, I guess:

Shortly after David and I moved into our country house in Garrison, New York in 1986, I noticed a banner along Route 9D.  There at the entrance to the Boscobel Historic Restoration, it said, “Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival.”

“Oh, look,” I said, “we have to go.”

David's answer was the most common that one would expect of most Americans, I imagine.  “I hated Shakespeare in high school.”

I, his Bardolator wife, wasn’t going to let that stop me.  “Oh, David, how can you say that.  You are an intelligent, sensitive, well-read man.  You can’t dismiss the greatest writer ever.”

I got him to indulge me.  One performance that summer thirty years ago and he was hooked too.

Our evenings with HVSF began with a picnic overlooking one of the most majestic views in the country.  That helped.  But it was the clear, contemporary, American style of the acting and totally entertaining productions that worked the magic. 

An early Romeo and Juliet cemented our love relationship with the Festival.  The company then performed that greatest of all love plays under a hand-me-down catering tent, with just a few props and what looked like 1950’s costuming that could have come from a thrift shop.  The players were young, looked like we did when we were teenagers.   Like all HVSF productions, the staging was simple—the show was about the intimacy of the setting, the night, the poetry, and the actors’ voices.

At the ball at the Capulets’ Romeo and Juliet danced to “I Only Have Eyes For You” by the Falcons.  Brilliant.  Finally, a production of that play where the main characters were actually presented as teenagers.  And it wasn’t just any old song from my teenage years.  It was one where the imagery in the lyrics matched the imagery of the play—the stars, the moon.  At intermission, I looked in the program for the name of the director.  Terrence O’Brien, a theater magician, was the Founding Artistic Director of the company.

We love what brings us joy.  Joy is what the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival has delivered to me over the years.

Eventually, the old catering tent was replaced by a venue worthy of the excellence of the performances underneath it.  Lately, I have had the additional privilege of serving on its board.

One sterling example of joy: the night my six-year-old identical twin grandsons returned from seeing A Comedy of Errors and demanded to know if I had any DVDs of Shakespeare plays.  They wanted more Shakespeare.

These days HVSF is led by our second-generation Artistic Director--Davis McCallum, who is surpassingly  competent at creating great theater and incredibly sure-footed at company leadership.   For the 2017 season, he has given the audience our first world premier, and I got to be there for the opening night.

Joy under the tent reached a new high on Saturday at the company’s current production of Pride and Prejudice directed by Amanda Dehnert in an adaptation by Kate Hamill, who also played Lizzy Bennet to Jason O’Connell’s Mr. Darcy. They and the rest of the cast gave an exuberant, madcap rendering that was at once true to Jane Austen’s novel and a contemporary interpretation of her characters.  Hysterically funny and moving at the same time.   I loved it.  I am going back to see it again.  I wish I could bottle the joy it delivers

The setting ready for the play to begin.

The Bennet Family with Mr. Collins
Photo: T. Charles Erikson

Jason O'Connell as Mr. Darcy
Photo: T. Charles Erikson

The Opening Night After Party

Our Playwright/Our Lizzy

Jason's Mr. Darcy is more than a reserved Englishman.
He is also interpersonally inept, making him 19th and
21st Century at the same time.  

You can learn more about HVSF here.

If you are nearby, I urge you to attend.  If you are far away, the Hudson Valley is absolutely worth a visit for its many attractions.  And if you decide to come, don't miss seeing whatever is on under the tent.  You will fall in love.  I know you will.

Over the years, many people have stepped up to keep HVS going. At the beginning, they were nurturing the infant theater experiment and were essential to helping it survive. Along the way over the years, determined supporters saw HVS through difficult transitions. In the past few years, the support has seemed nothing short of miraculous: a gift of 98 acres in the green hills of Garrison, New York have become its permanent home, with its own view of the majestic Hudson.

Just a couple of weeks ago, ground was broken for the building of an open- air theater.

It will be the first purpose-built LEED platinum such building in the United States.

An image of how the theater will look.

VIVA HVS!!

In Memory of a Great One's Passing

As Barbara's and my time on Mykonos winds down to little more than week, I thought to write about how it feels to be leaving our island home and family.  But then I realized we're departing on a date possessed of far more meaning than our return to the US, and requires few words to express.

It’s a well deserved salute to a man, husband, father, and warrior.  One of the best of The Greatest Generation, living a life few writers could ever hope to capture, no matter how hard they might try.

A second generation American of German Irish roots, born on New Year’s Eve 1919 in NYC’S poor Lower East Side, his factory worker father finally made enough to move the family up to the Bronx into another polyglot neighborhood of hard working men and women.

His athleticism and good nature earned him a position as a batboy at Yankee Stadium in the days of Babe Ruth—and later an offer to try out for the Babe’s former team, the Boston Red Sox.   After graduating high school he attended St. John’s University, working two jobs to pay for it, leaving no time to sleep.

Then came World War II, and he made his choice to leave school and go fight for his country.

He trained as a fighter-bomber pilot, flew 133 missions over Germany, never knowing each time he went up if he’d come back.  Many of his friends did not.  He received many decorations—including the unique honor of receiving both the United States and British Distinguished Flying Crosses.  But he never made a big deal of them. He just did his job.

And thought about the love of his life, Virginia.  The young woman he’d met on a one-day pass in flight school, in Sarasota.  And how they’d been inseparable until he left a month later, knowing he could not ask her to marry a soldier going off to war.

Four years later he returned, found her, and they married. 

He started a business. A very good one.  But it ended with the Korean War when he was called back to active duty to serve for twelve years as base commander of the Air National Guard’s 139^th Fighter Squadron and 109^thAirlift Wing in upstate New York.

There they had three daughters.

And there he buried his wife in 1970. His life was never the same, though he lived it through his daughters, his grandchildren, and reminiscences of a life respected and admired by all who knew him.

A memorial service with full military honors took place ten years ago this week as he was interred next to his beloved Virginia.

God rest your blessed soul, Colonel Frederick Joseph Zilly, Jr. (1919-2014).

Jeff––Saturday

The Ramsay Guide on Being Annoying. No 1. Flying

We shall call her Maureen

                                        

Maureen stands at the front of the queue to get on the plane the minute the call goes out for small children and those needing assistance. Group 0 will be next. Then 1, 2, 3,4,5,6,7. Even though Maureen is group 8 she stays at the front of the queue. 

She forces everybody to walk round her, she has her wheelie trolley across the passage. When she gets to the front Maureen gives the cabin crew an eye roll when they ask for her ID and boarding pass. 

She has put these at the bottom of her handbag which is tied on to her wheelie case. 

                                           

Maureen does not understand numbers, she has an argument with boarding crew. She thought that two bags makes three as the weight is the same and it's okay on the airline she normally flies with. Maureen produces excess tutting as she opens her case to put her handbag inside. 

Maureen wears very strong perfume. 

Some Maureen’s have friends, they travel with their friends but don’t want to pay extra to book seats. Within 5 seconds of the seatbelt sign going off Maureen and friends form a coven round the one with the best seat and strongly suggest that other people move. 

All Maureens have their eye lashes extended the day before flying. These eyelashes will tickle the back of the head of the person sitting in front of them. Its rumoured that these eyelashes can be used as extra lift assistance, increasing the flap area of the aircraft, should it get into difficulties. As yet this has not been tested in an emergency scenario. 

Maureen’s talk very loudly, they say nothing of any consequence. 50% of their vocabulary is ‘like’ and ‘amazing’. They tend to nod a lot. 

Before take off Maureens will remember that their handbag is in the case stored in the overhead locker. So they need to get out their window seat and go in search of the luggage bin they put their case in. This is often in the opposite direction that 99.9% of the people are moving in. She can block the aisle for a good 10 minutes. 

Maureen’s typically go to the toilet just before take off causing the pilot to tell them to get out of the toilet. Maureen goes to the toilet again before landing, again because she is ignoring cabin crew. Pilot has to tell her to get out of toilet. She then complains loudly that she was in there adjusting her eye lashes. 

                                      

If Maureen is a mother, baby will be in a buggy and the buggy will be used as a battering ram through duty free. Maureen will get up and down a lot during the flight to get stuff, constantly saying excuse me I have a baby. 

Maureen considers it against her human rights and the intellectual development of her child to take things to amuse baby on flight rather, her preference is that the child should express itself fully and indeed ‘amuse’ the rest of the passengers by singing 'the wheels on the bus' for the entire duration of the flight. Should the child’s voice start to fade, Maureen joins in increasing the volume just in case the passenger trying to work with his headphones on and laptop open 30 rows away isn’t quite getting it.

 Maureen often asks the cabin crew for something they do not have and she keeps asking after being told that they do not have it. She doesn’t understand its an aeroplane not McDonalds. 

Maureen’s like to take a rebellious approach to air travel, they don’t put the arm rest down, they don’t stow away their tables, they don’t open the window blind. They don’t understand using the phone on silent mode. 

Maureen’s like to stand in the aisle and talk to their pals, they have great endurance and can do this for the entire flight no matter how much they interrupt the trajectory of the refreshment trolley. 

Good Maureens can get very loud, very drunk and they think they are more interesting than they are.

 Classic Maureen puts her case in the first overhead luggage bin then finds a seat in the last row, then remembers her handbag. 

                                      

Maureen with have allergies, she makes sure everybody knows about it including the pilot and makes sure the pilot tells everybody. 

Maureen wears far too many jumpers to cut down on luggage and wriggles like a constipated octopus while sitting in the middle seat. 

Maureens can be the last people to board because they are at the wrong gate waiting for the wrong plane going to the same destination. Maureen’s complain loudly that no two aeroplanes have the right to be flying to the same place at roughly the same time. 

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this blog, help is available in the form of white wine.

Caro. Written from the airport.

 

A series in search of a setting

 Michael - Alternate Thursdays

Bushman hunter

Two weeks ago Sujata wrote about how setting makes a series and how she chose her settings. It made me think about how setting drives our Botswana mysteries in almost every way. Deserts are fascinating in their own right and most of the country is the arid Kalahari, but in the north Botswana borders on the Chobe and Zimbabwe rivers and suddenly becomes lush with riverine vegetation and abundant animal and bird life. The people, too, are varied. The largest group is the various Setswana speaking peoples, but there are other cultures as well including the San or Bushman peoples of the Kalahari. The constitution of Botswana guarantees equal rights to all citizens, but that doesn’t mean that there is no discrimination or that people don’t sometimes have to fight for those rights. The Bushman feature in several of our stories, and their struggle is the pivot of Death of the Mantis.

Ever since independence, the country has been a democracy that holds regular elections. It’s true that Seretse Khama’s Botswana Democratic Party has never lost an election, but there have been no serious challenges to the validity of the elections. Probably it’s fair to say that most people are fairly satisfied with the arc of their lives in the sixty-five-year-old nation. Part of that is due to the fact that the local kgosi (chief) and kgotla (assembly) run most aspects of local life as they have done for generations. So while much changed at the time of the British Protectorate and subsequently with the creation of the nation of Botswana, much also stayed the same. The continuity of those aspects of life smoothed the rougher transitions. So did the diamond wealth of the new nation. Both of those are threads in our stories.

Large meeting at the kgotla

Since Stanley and I both know Botswana well from many visits and work experiences, and we both love and respect the country, it doesn't seem unreasonable that we would choose to set our mystery series there even though we are South Africans. But, in fact, it wasn’t like that at all. In the first place, it was never our intention to write a series. We had an idea for what we thought would be an intriguing premise for a mystery and played with that idea for a long time before we set fingers to keyboards, only to discover that writing requires a lot of hard work and a lot of craft (that we had to learn largely from scratch).

Those hyenas again...
Yes, they'll chase off lions if they have the numbers

Many readers of Murder Is Everywhere will know that our premise was that a pack of hyenas would completely consume a body, including the bones, leaving nothing that a detective could track or identify. (We know this is true because we saw a pack of hyenas do exactly that to an adult Wildebeest they’d killed.) Our book would open with a game ranger and an ecologist discovering a hyena eating a human body and the story would flow from there. (Of course, we discovered rather quickly that that is the premise for a chapter not for a novel. I said we were beginners. We soon came to the more interesting question of why the murderer was so keen that the body would disappear without trace. That was the premise for a novel.)

Our intention was to set the book in a wedge of South Africa that forms part of the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park, a large area jointly managed by South Africa and Botswana. We needed an open wildlife area where it would not be unlikely to find helpful hyenas to get on with eliminating the body. However, we soon started to worry about the difficulty of taking a body into a national park with its control gates and personnel checking vehicles. We decided to move our venue to a much less controlled game reserve in Botswana.

Oddly, one of the most important features of Botswana as a setting for us turned out to be that it is not South Africa. That frees us to explore a variety of backstories that are relevant to southern Africa in general but not nailed down by the legacy of apartheid and the internal dynamics of South Africa. The Bushman stories are one example. Murders for witchcraft, the growing Chinese influence in the region, and biopiracy are others that have featured in our books.

By the way, when we chose Botswana, it was by no means virgin territory for mystery writers. Apart from Unity Dow’s horrifying Screaming of the Innocents, there was Alexander McCall Smith with his wildly popular Mma Ramotswe’s No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. When the start of our first book, A Carrion Death, was shortlisted for the UK Crime Writers Association Debut Dagger award, and we hopefully attended the awards dinner (we didn’t win), one of the judges kindly congratulated us on our work, but then asked why we’d dared to set the book in Botswana. “McCall Smith owns Botswana,” she informed us. It’s one of the minor regrets of my life that I only thought of the obvious riposte much later. I should have said, “Well, probably half the writers here set their books in London. Doesn’t Conan Doyle own London?” Botswana is a country the size of France albeit with only a few million people, but it’s big enough and diverse enough to have many stories and host many writers.

So Kubu found his home in Botswana, and almost everything about him reflects the culture of his people and the nature of his country. That it was the home for a series happened a bit later when our agent brought us a contract from Harper Collins for A Carrion Death. We were stunned and delighted.

“You are writing a series, aren’t you?” she asked. “They want a series. It’s a two book contract.”

Still in shock, we assured her that we would write a series, even suggesting that we were already planning the sequel.

“Good,” she responded. “They want a synopsis for the second book by next week.”

We had a busy weekend, but we had our series and it had its setting.

The Delaware River's Almost-Twin Sisters: Lambertville and New Hope

 Sujata Massey

I walked all the way from New Jersey to Pennsylvania this morning.

It was a breeze--taking just about 10 minutes to stroll across the historic 1000-foot bridge between two charming small towns: Lambertville on the Jersey side, and New Hope in Pennsylvania. 

Even though I've always lived in cities, my heart melts when I explore small towns. I feel myself go back into the books I loved in childhood when I walk narrow streets, peering over old iron fences into pocket-sized gardens. It all tends to work when there's money involved; when people have a profitable reason to preserve their buildings, and interesting tenants move in to serve meals, sell antiques, and display adorable items in the windows. 

Not every old town gets such a chance. Very likely the special bridge linking two places was a factor. Lambertville is a little more shopping heavy, and New Hope has a few more water views and cultural meccas--but both make a wonderful day or even an outing for a few hours. And what a magnificent view for a walker from the bridge's center!

Ten thousand years ago, this gorgeous area was home for the Lenni-Lenape Native Americans. Lambertville became a Western settlement around 1703, when agents for the council of West Jersey bought the land from the Delaware Indians. The Europeans then subdivided the land to farmers and developers. Ferries, taverns, and shops sprung up here and in the town across the water, which were then called Coryell's Ferry. The area that I casually explored was an important outpost and crossing point for George Washington's troops in the War for Independence.

New Hope was founded in 1710 with a land-grant from William Penn. It was the halfway point between Philadelphia and New York City and an important location for train and boat travel. Mills harnessed the strength of the Delaware River, and trains running goods from here throughout the country. Lots of 19th century buildings of brick and stucco add their own grand flourishes to the housing landscape. 

Here's a peek at the 1840s Amwell Masonic Lodge, now shops, on Bridge Street in Lambertville.

My heart was stolen by the cute Halloween displays in this vintage business--and in at the windows of almost every Lambertville shop.

This old mill building close to the river on the Pennsylvania side made me swoon. I expected someone to emerge wearing a long dress and bonnet and carrying a pail, but at least I saw ducks.

Parryville Mansion, home of New Hope's founder, is a place to explore.

Too many choices of charming ways to go!

There is nothing more gorgeous on an old stone building than a brilliantly edged window.

I remain at the water's edge, contemplating the prospect of my next visit!

Writing My Parasites

Ovidia--every other Tuesday I’ve finally submitted the draft, so now I’m in the waiting-for-edits limbo and all my writing parasites are surfacing.

You'd think I’d jump into all the things I’d been putting off—all the books I wanted to read, the exhibitions I wanted to go over, the shows I wanted to watch--but Plot Twist: I decided to come down with a cold instead. A real nuisance that's been around, on and off, for about ten days.

At least it held off until I hit “submit.”

And at least the view from out the window here is nice!

These lovely wild orchids growing vertically from the branches of the giant tree just outside my office window are parasites, aren't they?

Other parasites are a lot more aggressive. This is a tree I saw on one of my walks (the benefit of living close to several parks is no matter how lousy you feel, there's always somewhere to walk--and if you're lucky, dogs to encounter).

This was a palm tree--you can see some dry, brown fronds hanging--but its quite dead now, thanks to the vine that's smothered it.

You can see similar vines making their way up the trunks of other trees--

This one's just starting out. But, like the one in this next photo, it's just a matter of time--

As long as the vines are only on the trunk, things are not too bad. The tree provides support and access to sunlight at the top of the forest canopy... until the vine reaches the top and starts to smother the leaves, by which time it's too late for the tree.

All the vine needs for support is the trunk, dead or alive.

In my virus-congested state, I've been thinking we writers are kind of parasitically feeding off the society we live in.
But ideally we would be the trees and tree orchids as well as the vines, absorbing all the effluvia of society and producing oxygen, shade and beauty.

And dealing with our own parasites too.

It's not that I have nothing to do right now. I'm on the final stretch of the final sleeve on the knitting project for this book (tryiing to finish a cardigan and a book at the same time 'forces' me to take breaks) and I want to sketch out some story ideas I got that I didn't allow myself to work on till the draft was in, and I have so many books I want to read, but instead...

... I've been experimenting with sprouting mung beans and soy beans in teapots.
It works really well, because you have to flush them with water and this way they can drip into the tea pots.

Mung beans sprout a lot faster than soy beans, by the way!

But there's something a little creepy about the rootlets coming out of the filter.

And by the day after--

Sprouts for lunch today--these sprouts are delicious!


The other distraction is a phone game called 'Fishdom', which a neighbor’s kid got me to download so she could play during her 'compulsory' outdoor time.

I know that defeats the purpose of being outdoors but I remember being that kid who didn't want to 'play' so... Anyway, I tried it when I got home and the next thing I knew I'd been playing for three hours!

It's a Tetris style game, where there's just enough challenge to keep you interested, and you're rewarded with dopamine hits and getting fish and decorations for your fishtank.

Seemingly a harmless game, it’s a strangler vine that wrapped itself around my day, sucking out time and energy!

But oh, it was really fun!
Still, I have a real life fishtank and plants to take care of!

And speaking of real life, I’ve been so relieved and happy to know my agent and her family in Florida are safe after the last storm. We've been hearing such terrible things on the news!

And for now, I'm going to enjoy this forced time off and get rid of this cold.